Long Dark Night
by Mistress Arion
Summary: Havelock Vetinari is kidnapped and tortured, leaving Sam Vimes to examine his real feelings for the Patrician. WARNING: SLASH SLASH SLASH, implied non-con, implied torture. If you don't like the idea of Vimes/Vetinari, DON'T READ THIS. (There, you've been
1. Default Chapter

Long Dark Night of the Soul  
___________________________________________  
  
  
  
Lord Vetinari opened his eyes to blackness.  
  
Not the usual run-of-the-mill cut-rate blackness you get in bed chambers and on starless nights (sort of grey-blue with black shadows), but a true ink black where nothing at all could be seen.  
  
He closed his eyes and opened them again.  
  
The darkness was still there.  
  
He lay for a moment, contemplating the utter lack of light and the amazing amount of pain in which he found himself. Ignoring for the moment the chance that he had indeed both suddenly gone blind and stumbled through the palace window, he reviewed the possibilities.  
  
The surface beneath him, he realized, had nothing in common with the deep eiderdown on which he had gone to sleep. It also lacked something in terms of basic bed-ness, namely softness and warmth, making up for this lack with large helpings of "stone" and "floor," not to mention "icy."  
  
He heard a groan, somewhere by his feet.  
  
"Is anyone here?" a familiar voice rasped out.  
  
"Were you looking for anyone in particular Sir Samuel?" said Vetinari calmly.  
  
"Oh no, Sir. Just wondering," said Vimes with manic cheerfulness. Somehow, he always felt most alive when he was being shot at, stabbed, pummelled, or otherwise running for his life. There was a quiet shuffling sound as the Commander of the Watch hauled himself painfully upright. "I was thinking, just now as I came to, who's the last person I would want to be trapped in a small dark space with, and there you were. Funny, feels rather like I've been kicked too."  
  
"Are you injured Sir Samuel?" inquired Vetinari. The Patrician realized that his own face felt warped, as if it had been used for a game of football without even a by your leave. He winced as he prodded gingerly at a freshly loosened tooth.  
  
"Just a little bruised Sir. You?" said Vimes.  
  
The Patrician sat carefully. "I rather fear my ribs have been broken," said Vetinari.  
  
There was a brisk sliding sound as Vimes dragged himself to the Patrician's side.  
  
"May I Sir? Doughnut Jimmy taught me to find broken ribs a treat."  
  
Vetinari jumped slightly as two invisible hands trailed lightly along his ribcage. He raised his arms to allow a full inspection, wincing as Vimes came in contact with the injured areas.  
  
"At least three broken Sir," said Vimes at last. "They were after you, not me."  
  
Vetinari dropped his arms. "What makes you say that?" he asked with genuine interest.  
  
"Cause I'm lightly bruised, mostly where some bastard coshed me, but you've been used for target practice."  
  
"I'm afraid someone practiced until he got it perfect," said Vetinari dryly. "Who do you feel it could have been?"  
  
"Can't rightly say Sir," said Vimes.  
  
"You mean you can't think of anyone who would wish me harm?" said Vetinari in disbelief. He wondered momentarily if the blow which had knocked Vimes cold had also scrambled his thoughts slightly.  
  
"Oh no Sir," said Vimes honestly, "I can think of several hundred people who would like to see you dead. I just can't think of any stupid enough to NOT kill you like this."  
  
Vetinari relaxed. "Someone stupid enough to let me live, yet intelligent enough to also kidnap the man most likely to find me again. Hmmmm. No names spring to mind."  
  
There was a grating noise and the door to the room swung open. Both men covered their eyes as the blazing torchlight filled the windowless stone cell.  
  
"Havelock Vetinari?" a strangely accented voice asked coldly.  
  
"You have me at a disadvantage I'm afraid," said Vetinari, squinting.  
  
"You do not need to know my name," said the voice, "I represent the Muntabi Liberation Front; our men are held in your palace cells and we negotiate even now for their release."  
  
"I've been kidnapped for a prisoner exchange?" said Vetinari in disbelief.  
  
"Let us say that your presence here is a powerful argument for the release of our freedom fighters," said the voice.  
  
"You mean spys," said Vimes carefully. "How does bashing away at the Patrician of Ankh-Morepork help to get your men released?"  
  
"Lord Rust and the other civic leaders (these words were said in the same tone someone else might use to say rubbish heaps) will arrange the release of our prisoners, or we will be forced to torture their Patrician. It would be most unlucky if he died as we did so."  
  
"But man, this is the Century of the Fruitbat, we don't just torture people to get our way you know," said Vimes in dismay. "We invite them to parties and torture them with long stories, it's called politics." He looked desperately toward the seated Vetinari.  
  
In the torchlight Vimes returning vision could see that Vetinari was indeed worse for the wear. One eye was blackened, and his cheekbone looked rather more lumpy than one normally expected. Blood had crusted on the man's split upper lip, and dark purple bruises stained his face. He sat in silence, his black robes dirt and dust streaked.  
  
"We have had enough of politics," the voice said. "Now we will try violence. I hope for your sakes it works."  
  
The door slammed with a leaden thud, instantly smothering the light.  
  
"Well, my Lord, now we know the who," said Vetinari quietly.  
  
"They're going to torture you," said Vimes in disbelief, "They're really going to torture you."  
  
"Yes, it does seem a rather ineffective strategy," said Vetinari, "all Rust and the others will have to do is wait it out."  
  
"But you'll be killed," said Vimes.  
  
"And then they will have nothing to trade. A rather silly attempt I must say," said Vetinari.  
  
"Do we really have their prisoners?" Vimes asked curiously, after a moments thought.  
  
"Certainly," said Vetinari, "I supervised their debriefing myself."  
  
"You mean you tortured them," said Vimes flatly. He heard the Patrician move slightly, and could visualize the man's calm stare.  
  
"You might say, rather, that we persuaded them to see the benifits of assisting our intelligence gathering efforts," said Vetinari.  
  
"So you tortured them."  
  
"In a word, yes. Don't tell me you're squeemish Sir Samuel?"  
  
Vimes sighed. "So how are we going to get out of this?" he asked after a moment.  
  
"I rather think we're not," said Vetinari, "unless your Captain Carrot can find us."  
  
Vimes sounded puzzled. "Surely Lord Rust and the others wouldn't..." He trailed off as he paused to consider the men and women in question. "What am I saying? They would, wouldn't they. They'll let you die in here." He was constantly amazed at the upper classes' ability not only to eat their own young, but tuck the napkin in deeper and run at their neighbors with a fork and knife.  
  
"Now now, Sir Samuel," said Vetinari soothingly, "I imagine once I'm dead they will let you go. You have nothing to worry about."  
  
"Nothing to..., they're going to kill you!" Vimes exploded.  
  
"Yes?" said Vetinari. It always paid to take an interest.  
  
"I'm going to examine the cell," snarled Vimes.  
  
Vetinari smiled to himself as Vimes rose and stomped in what was presumably the direction of the nearest corner. There was a meaty thud, and a muffled "damn".  
  
"Have you hurt yourself Sir Samuel?"  
  
"No," came the emphatic reply, followed by muffled swearing and the sound of someone rubbing a freshly jammed toe.  
  
Vetinari waited quietly for a few moments.  
  
There were footsteps.  
  
There were rather more footsteps, interspersed with the occassional thud, curse, groan and/or splash as Vimes found (in order) one bunk, wooden, two skulls, rolling, and one iron water trough (complete with convenient pipe designed for convenient continuous refill and, more specifically, located at approximately convenient groin heighth above the trough), trodden in.  
  
With a squelchy noise a tottering and rather high-pitched Vimes sat back on the floor, feeling carefully first to assure himself that he was not about to descend on anything dangerous (ie: a pipe, skull, rat, or Lord Vetinari).  
  
"Have you finished?" Vetinari enquired brightly.  
  
There was a brief mutter.  
  
"I'm afraid I didn't quite hear that," said Ventinari.  
  
"Yes." The word had overtones which suggested that not only was the speaker finished, but the Disc, the day, and possibly the universe had joined him.  
  
"And have you found the loose bar?" asked Vetinari.  
  
"What are you talking about?" said Vimes in disbelief, "What bloody loose bar?"  
  
"I believe that tradition demands a loose bar, or perhaps a hidden trapdoor?" said Ventinari calmly.  
  
"Well there's no bloody loose bar," said Vimes furiously, "No loose bar, no trapdoor, no weak hinges, no tooth fairy waiting with a key. Are you sure they didn't jar your brain a bit while they were giving you that shiner?" he paused a moment, then added a dash of prudent caution, "Sir."  
  
"I am quite myself," said Vetinari calmly, "And I'm sure you know your business Sir Samuel, cells and whatnot. I was only trying to be helpful."  
  
There was a long silence.  
  
*********************************************************  
  
  
"They are coming, Sir Samuel," said Vetinari quietly. It was quite possibly morning.  
  
Vimes woke from a half dozing nightmare in which he had been hanging acres of nursery curtains (with bunnies) with the assistance of Nobby Nobbs. The curtains had kept falling and Nobby was wearing a dress and singing about spoonfuls of sugar. All in all, waking up in a dank cell was somewhat of an improvement.  
  
The door opened with a clang, and light again blinded the two men. Blinking owlishly, Vimes found his streaming eyes suddenly trying to focus on a swordpoint held firmly between his nostrils.  
  
"Move, My Lord Vimes, and we will kill you," said the man with the strange accent. Several trolls who had entered the cell seized the Patrician and dragged him out. Vimes tensed, but, "pointedly" mindful of sudden movements, did not leap.  
  
"A wise decision," his captor said, edging for the door. The sword remained at attention until the closing slab locked firmly in place, leaving Vimes alone in the dark.  
  
**********************************************************  
  
Hours passed.  
  
Rather more hours passed.  
  
More hours drifted by in a passing sort of fashion.  
  
Even more... (all right, you get the picture).  
  
**********************************************************  
  
Vimes sat on the wooden bunk, his back firmly against the wall as it had been for most of the day (or night, or whatever). He had been "fed" three times, a raw turnip and a slice of bread each time, so he assumed twelve hours or so had passed. There was a movement of disturbed air, then the "plink" of a pebble striking the opposite wall and rolling away.   
  
"That's 50,678 hits and 2 misses," he announced in satisfaction (Miss number 1 had been the result of a sudden insectile and above all leggy sort of slithering on his head which resulted in a brief flurry of motion and the loss of the pebble. Miss number 2 was not so much a miss as a foul, caused by a vicious overthrow, a riccochet, and a sharp pain above his right eye. But it did count; there were rules...)  
  
Vimes scrounged another pebble from the uneven floor and prepared for his next toss. He paused.  
  
There was the sound of something heavy being dragged. The door flew open; Vimes hands went to his dazzled eyes. Something large and black was thrown heavily into the cell, and the door slammed.  
  
There was silence.  
  
"Vimes?" A harsh whisper from the floor.  
  
"Sir?" said Vimes in horror. The ragged shape could not be Vetinari; it couldn't be. No one would, no one could... Vime's mind tried to deal with reality and boggled a bit. Vetinari wouldn't let...  
  
"The Muntabi are rather inventive," rasped Vetinari, "I shall have to take notes next time. Do you have a pencil Sir Samuel?" There was a sound which could have been either a chuckle or a sob.  
  
Vimes slid from the bench and felt his way carefully toward the Patrician.  
  
"Are you, are you..." he paused, unable to formulate the question in any way which did not make him sound like a complete and utter tit. He tried again.  
  
"Are you badly injured my Lord?"  
  
Vetinari hissed something which might have been called laughter (if you were the type who called a fully automatic riot gun a peacekeeper). "Oh no, Sir Samuel, not injured. I've merely had myself rearranged a bit for reasons of vanity. I'm sure my new appearance is rather striking."  
  
Vimes reached blindly and felt cloth beneath his fingers. There, an arm, a back, two legs. He fumbled a bit, and found that his hands were wet. Gingerly, he sniffed at his fingers.  
  
Blood.  
  
The cloth which remained at Vetinari's back was saturated, as was the back of his drawers.  
  
Vetinari chuffed awful laughter. "I'm afraid I need a bath Sir Samuel, I should have warned you. Can you direct me to the nearest tub?"  
  
"Shut up," said Vimes coldly. "How bad is it?"  
  
"I thought you wanted me to be quiet?" Vetinari said softly. Getting no response he sighed. "Not so much bad, Sir Samuel, as quite widespread. They really are rather clever."  
  
"How bad?" Vimes asked again.  
  
"Did I mention they used imps to record it?" asked Vetinari. "After all, they do need proof to send to Rust and the others. It took a bit, but I'm sure a few of my later comments were worth the effort, if a bit loud."  
  
Vimes winced. It must have been bad indeed to made Vetinari say anything out of the ordinary at all, much less loudly. Dreading what he would find, he slowly lowered his hands back to the figure in front of him.  
  
"Surely you're not afraid of a little blood?" inquired Vetinari.  
  
"Can we pretend, just for a moment, that you are not required to continue to impress me with your disregard for your own arse?" snarled Vimes. "Now either bloody well tell me where it hurts or I'm going to go back to chucking pebbles at that damned wall and you can lay here and bleed, Sir."  
  
Vetinari lay in silence for a moment, and Vimes found himself half-hoping no answer would be forthcoming. He jerked as a hand landed heavily on his arm.  
  
Vimes carefully felt the offered fingers and Vetinari hissed. The nails were gone, and the middle three fingers felt strange and misshapen.  
  
"Only your left hand?" He felt his stomach clench.  
  
"And my right foot," the Patrician said flatly.  
  
"The new shapes are rather nice," said Vimes, struggling for a conversational tone, "but I'm afraid the texture is a bit beyond me."  
  
"I expected better Sir Samuel," said Vetinari chidingly, "surely you've skinned rabbits in your day?"  
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Did you ever touch them afterwards?" Vetinari said.  
  
"Of course," said Vimes in confusion, "they were all smooth and..." His voice trailed off. "Oh gods."  
  
"I told you they were rather clever Sir Samuel."  
  
"So, the hand and the foot. Anything else?" Sam Vimes struggled mightily to control his temper. Robbing and killing people, that he understood. That was just daily life in Ankh-Morpork. This, this was something different all together.  
  
"A brisk beating with what I believe was a buggy whip," said Vetinari calmly, "And when that did not get the preferred response they turned to other means."  
  
"What else did they do to you, then?" Vimes demanded. "How the hell do you expect me to bandage wounds if you won't tell me where they are?"  
  
"I believe this conversation is finished," said Vetinari.  
  
Vimes sat for a moment in utter shock. The bastard was trying to turn him off, just like that, just like always. Bugger that!  
  
"This conversation is not bloody well finished you, you... Sir," he almost shouted. "Do you want help or not?"  
  
"Sir Samuel," Vetinari said coldly, "If you wish to assist me in binding my wounds that will be acceptable. If you do not, that is also acceptable. You have heard enough."  
  
Something in Vetinari's tone made Vimes pause. Good street coppers heard it all the time, usually just before the first crossbow bolt was loosed and the first knife thrown. A sudden thought rapped desperately for attention behind his eyes- even a pet dog will bite, if hurt and cornered and afraid. And Vetinari was no one's pet. Even injured, he was certainly the most dangerous man Vimes had ever been alone with. And they were alone. Vimes shuddered. If the Commander of the Watch suffered a sudden and above all fatal accident while in the hands of his captors, who would really question the circumstances? He decided that the full extent of the Patrician's injuries could wait for later discovery.  
  
"Right," said Vimes, "Let's get the hand and foot wrapped, and wash the whip cuts."  
  
"Superbe," said Vetinari. "Do you happen to have any bandages on you?"  
  
Muttering, Vimes stumbled to the water trough and pulled of his shirt (carefully avoiding the fill pipe by the simple expedient of feeling frantically for it with one waving hand while the other was held protectively over the front of his trousers). It wouldn't be clean, but at least it could smear the mess a bit. He dunked the shirt several times in the chilly water.   
  
The Patrician tried unsuccessfully to haul himself upright as Vimes returned.   
  
"I seem to be a little weak," Vetinari mumbled.  
  
"Probably just working too hard," said Vimes sarcastically. He felt for a moment, then carefully propped the other man in an upright position and slid the tattered rags of his robe of office over his head. Wincing, he used the dripping shirt to wash the whip cuts laddered across the tall man's back.  
  
"Did they get your legs too?"  
  
"No," said Vetinari curtly.  
  
"But the backs of your drawers were soaked with blood," said Vimes in confusion, "Was that all from your back or..."  
  
"It is not important," said Vetinari. "Can we finish this or should I plan to spend the evening?"   
  
Vimes said nothing as he tore the wet cloth into several large pieces, leaving the neck yoke and back intact. If Vetinari was that damned peculiar about having some cuts on his arse dressed he could jolly well sit on them. He washed the skinned fingers carefully, then without pause, seized them and pulled quickly. The broken bones slid into rough alignment.  
  
Judges held up enthusiastic "10's" as Vetinari failed to scream.  
  
A few moments later a similar operation restored some semblance of shape to the man's toes. Again, there was silence.  
  
As Vimes bound the skinned extremities, he allowed himself to wonder, just for a moment, what it must have taken to make the man scream. He shuddered at the images which tried to cross his mind. Right now he just wanted to go home. Sighing, he slipped the intact collar of his former shirt over the Patrician's head and spread the damp backpiece over the maze of whip cuts. Vetinari caught his hand as he began to tuck the cloth into the man's linen drawers.  
  
"Thank you Sir Samuel, I can manage."  
  
Sam withdrew his hands. For gods sakes, it wasn't as if he were going to enjoy reaching into the man's unmentionables. You'd think he'd suggested they go to The Blue Cat Club with it's select clientel of well dressed and above all single men and have a few drinks together... You'd think he'd tried to ra...  
  
A horrible thought reached the edges of his mind.  
  
What would it take to make Vetinari scream? Sam Vimes was suddenly terribly afraid he knew.  
  
Vimes cleared his throat. "Well, that should at least let you lay down a bit without getting dirt in 'em." He paused, "More dirt anyway."  
  
"Thank you," said Vetinari blandly  
  
Vimes shrugged to himself. A man who found it difficult to hug his own wife in public, he felt as if he were standing on the top of Dunmanifestin in a heavy rain, wearing copper armor and holding a flag pole. Where the hell was Angua or Sybil when you needed them? He heard Vetinari slowly drag himself to the wooden bunk.  
  
"A bit of assistance needed Sir?"  
  
"No thank you, I believe I have it." There were several thuds as Vetinari laborously pulled himself into the bunk.  
  
Where the hell was Angua, as a matter of fact? Or Carrot? Or anybody? Vimes felt his anger kindle to a white heat. Vetinari was a bastard, no one would disagree with that. But he's our bastard, Vimes thought, and no one else deserves a bloody go at him. And even a bastard didn't deserve to be beaten, and skinned, and broken, and...that. The policeman felt his face flush with borrowed shame as unbidden images of Vetinari's torture filled his mind.  
  
Who? How? What had they... He scrubbed his face with his hands. He thought he knew the basic mechanics, there being limited possibilities even for a really inventive mind (there were, after all, only so many openings in a living human body). As a copper he had seen more than enough cases where someone thought that no meant yes please- they were simple. You put them in a cell with the victim's mum and dad [spouse and children optional extras] and let nature take its course (followed by a long hospitalization or a brief funeral depending on the parents in question). This was, well, torture.  
  
He pondered deeply. How much, damage, could a really determined someone do, that way? He was dimly aware that some people claimed that, um, exit doors, could safely be considered enterance ramps if properly prepared and so on. As this normally fell under his heading of "the things people will try" he was not certain of what safe preparation would consist of, and in this case he doubted if preparation was anything other than the word "surprise." Therefore he was forced to assume that any damage that could be done had been done.  
  
Vimes absent-mindedly began to flick pebbles about on the floor. How did you ask someone if they'd been buggered and were bleeding their guts out? Was his suspicion even right at all?   
  
He had to say something.  
  
"My Lord?" said Vimes quietly.  
  
"Yes, Sir Samuel?" Vetinari's voice was soft.  
  
"When they... Did they... Do you have internal injuries my Lord?" There, diplomatic sounding.  
  
Vetinari let out a long rattling breath, "I don't know what you..." He paused, and said quietly "They will not kill me Sir Samuel."  
  
Sam released a breath he had been unaware of holding.  
  
"Is there anything I can do?" asked Vimes carefully. He was a policeman; he gave chase, he didn't cuddle the victims of the crime. He realized how Detritus must feel when confronted with words above one syllable.  
  
"You can wait until you are released Sir Samuel, and congratulate Lord Rust on his strength of character and determination not to bow to terrorists."  
  
"Yes Sir," Vimes snapped out. The man was impossible. Giving up for the moment, he curled himself into a ball and tried to sleep.  
  
***************************************************************  
  
Sam Vimes lay sprawled on the rough wooden bunk, awaiting the Patrician's return. It was the fifth time in what he assumed to be as many days that Vetinari had been taken away. How long could this go on?  
  
The time slid by slowly, broken only by restless sleep and two of the day's three meals. If you could call them that. The policeman found his strength ebbing with each day of near starvation. Vimes rocked on the rough wood, trying to find a comfortable position for his afternoon nap.  
  
The door opened abruptly, and the nude and battered body of Havelock Vetinari was casually tossed onto the stone floor. A troll with a dim lantern stood in the doorway at the side of the man who had first spoken to them.  
  
"We believe he is dying," the man said, "I hope for his sake Lord Rust and the others release our men soon."  
  
Vimes rose, only to be thrust back onto the bunk by the troll.  
  
"Do you believe in the gods, Sir Samuel?" the man asked.  
  
Getting no response, man and troll departed.  
  
Vimes moved as quickly as he could to reach the crumpled form on the floor.  
  
"My Lord, my Lord?" said Vimes, feeling desperately for a pulse.  
  
There was a whimper, and Vimes felt the fingers of the man's right hand spasm slightly. Vimes ran gentle hands across the man's body, trying to determine the extent of his newest wounds.  
  
"Don't bother," Vetinari whispered in a voice raw with screaming, "there are no new external injuries except for those on my chest and around my mouth."  
  
Vimes bowed his head and took a deep breath before sliding his hands under the man's unresisting shoulders.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Vetinari weakly.  
  
"I have to get you to the water trough," Vimes explained, "I'm out of cloth." He began to slide the Patrician toward the water, noticing as he did the heat pouring from the slender body.  
  
"You're fevered," Vimes grunted, "there's infection."  
  
"At this point I fear it matters little," said Vetinari.  
  
"You're not going to die my Lord," said Vimes bruskly. "the city needs you."  
  
"The city will do just fine without me," whispered Vetinari, "It will have to."  
  
Vimes used his cupped hands to scoop water onto the Patrician's bleeding torso, working by feel to find the source of the blood. Vetinari gasped in agony as the cold water streamed off his burning body. Vimes continued his explorations, slowly locating the curved wounds of varying depths which were dappled across Vetinari's chest, clustered around and across the nipples.  
  
"What in the hell did they cut you with, a biscuit mold?" asked Vimes in dismay.  
  
Vetinari made a noise which sounded for all the world like a bark. It took the startled Commander a moment to realize that the battered man was trying to laugh.  
  
"You are refreshing Sir Samuel," Vetinari rasped out, "They did not cut me at all."  
  
"Then what.."  
  
"They are bites Sir Samuel," said Vetinari.  
  
"They tortured you by biting you? Those sick..."  
  
"Oh, this was not the official torture of the day," Vetinari said in a tired voice. "They finished that earlier. This was the entertainment."  
  
"Sir?" said Vimes, unsure if he had heard correctly.  
  
"Several cadre members have found that I can be quite entertaining, not to say "uplifting", if chained in the correct positions," continued Vetinari, "and equiped with a mouth brace."  
  
Vimes slid his fingers over the other man's face. The corners of his mouth were ripped and bleeding, as if something had been forced in to keep him from screaming. Or biting.  
  
The policeman felt his stomach clench, and staggered for the cell's small latrine hole. He made it, barely, and lay vomiting the meger contents of his gut.   
  
Torture he could grasp, at least the idea. In a way, it wasn't personal (even though some of the more renouned torture chambers did present all victims with a personalized mug and a vest saying "I Survived Torture and All I Got Was This Lousy Vest). But Sam Vimes was not by nature a cruel man. This was sickening. How could anyone enjoy...erotic activity, with someone who had a) just been tortured, b) been fitted out like a rabid dog, and c) was chained down?  
  
"You will be going home soon," whispered Vetinari, as Vimes hitched himself back across the floor to the man's side.  
  
Vimes shook his head, then, feeling like an idiot, said "Not without you my Lord."  
  
"Vetinari's terrier will have to seek a new master," said Vetinari softly.  
  
Vimes said nothing; there was nothing to say.  
  
**********************************************************************  
  
Vimes awoke to the sound of low moaning. It took him a moment to realize that the sound was coming from Vetinari.  
  
He rose as rapidly as his groggy brain would allow, and felt his way to the wooden bunk where Vetinari lay without pillow or blanket. The man's body was wracked with shaking chills.  
  
The fever, it's killing him, thought Vimes. I've got to warm him up.  
  
Vimes crawled onto the wooden platform, quickly wrapping his arms and legs around the fevered man and pulling him close so their chests touched. Vetinari moaned again and began to mutter.  
  
"Remember young man," raved Vetinari, "the blade goes in fast and comes out slow. A craftsman kills with the tip, a savage with the edge."  
  
Vimes smoothed the Patrician's hair from his face and wiped his cold, wet brow. How many times did I say I wanted him dead? he thought. A guilty rememberance inched his way into his mind. Did I really say "They ought to hang him, but they can't find a twisty enough rope?" Did I mean it?  
  
He held more tightly to the shaking form and wished desperately for a light.  
  
"Pappa, where did Mamma go? Why is she so cold? Pappa? Pappa?" Vetinari writhed and twitched in Vimes' desperate embrace.  
  
"It's all right, you'll be all right," said Vimes hopelessly. The Patrician's teeth chattered like castenets and his back arched upward.  
  
"Take it out!" he screamed suddenly, "Oh gods stop it. Not the red pepper again, please not again!" The words were lost as the screams climed in intensity and pitch, becoming at last wordless shrieks.  
  
Vimes fought grimly to hold the jerking, screaming man on the narrow bunk, relaxing only when the shrieks trailed to silence and the convulsive movement stopped. Slowly Vimes felt the other's shivering cease.   
  
"Vimes?" Vetinari's voice was a rasping croak. "Is that you?"  
  
"It's me my Lord," said Vimes, "You were chilling."  
  
"I'm dying Vimes," said Vetinari.  
  
Vimes swallowed heavily. Lying wouldn't serve.  
  
"You are my Lord, but they will pay for it."  
  
Vetinari tried to laugh. "Always so angry Sir Samuel. I will rest more easily in my grave knowing that my captors will soon join me."  
  
Vimes stared at a point 6 inches above the Patrician's head (or would have stared if anything could be seen)and decided honesty was the best policy.  
  
"It will make me feel better, Sir," said Vimes.  
  
Vetinari snorted. "I have so enjoyed knowing you, Sir Samuel. You have hated me for years, assumed I existed only to trouble you, disobeyed every direct order I chose to give you, and flaunted every polite societal convention on the Disc. I always wondered if my death would someday come at your hands."  
  
Vimes grimmaced, "I never hated you Sir." Honesty compelled him to add, "At least not for long."  
  
Vetinari dropped his head to Vimes shoulder and lay silently for a moment. "Wherever I go, I shall be sorry that there is no Vimes there to torment me," he said at last. Vetinari raised a shaking hand and slid it to cup the policeman's cheek. Vimes inhaled sharply as a pair of dry, burning lips pressed gently against his own.  
  
"I have wanted to do that so many times," said Vetinari, "Usually when you were pretending not to understand any question I asked you. I always wondered what it would take to bring you to my bed."  
  
"My Lord, you're delirious," Vimes sputtered.  
  
"No," said Vetinari calmly; his voice a raking whisper. "I'm dying, and you deserve to know the truth. You've always believed I took you to be nothing more than furniture- there when I needed you, but unnoticed, ignored." The chilled man paused to catch his breath. "You were never unnoticed, Sam. When you stood there, vibrating with anger and ready to arrest the world, I always wanted to rise, grab your chin, and thrust my tongue into your mouth until we both forgot about the city and the Watch and..." His voice trailed off.  
  
Vimes boggled. "Why didn't you?" asked the confused policeman. He felt as if the Disc had tilted and spun him off the edge. Surely this was the demented raving of a dying man- wasn't it?  
  
"Because you didn't want me too," said Vetinari hoarsely. "I always assumed, given that you never found the occassion to deprive me of my head, that one day when we were very old I would tell you, and you would wonder if the old man was playing one last game."  
  
Vimes lay frozen and felt the dry lips brush his own once more.  
  
"Last time pays for all," said Vetinari, "I shall miss you."   
  
Vimes, his mind whirling in frightened dismay, held the man close, feeling the battered body again begin to burn with fever. The rasping breaths came only with difficulty now.  
  
He couldn't die. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Vimes tried desperately to think, but his brain seemed to have skittered off for it's holidays. The bastard had to live, at least long enough for a proper row and a poke in the eye. What had he meant, kissing him like that? He couldn't just die his way out of a thing like that.  
  
Bugger that! Now it was personal.  
  
There was a sound in the hall, and Vimes stiffened. It was too soon. Vetinari would die as soon as they began. Quickly he untangled himself from the Patrician and sat on the edge of the bunk. This time he would fight, even if it meant his death, he would fight. Some things just weren't right.  
  
He took a deep breath. Gods, he wished he could see Sybil one last time. And the baby, he would never see the baby. He felt the Patrician twitch against his back as his resolve threatened to weaken.  
  
No, he would fight. He'd be damned if the last thing Vetinari felt was his guts being split apart by some sick bastard. He had to live.  
  
There was scuffling outside the door, then... a bone chilling howl.  
  
Angua! It was Angua!  
  
The door was flung open and a blood soaked form trotted in. Vimes rushed forward, gesturing to the bunk, and felt himself begin to fall.  
  
The last thing he saw as he collapsed was a werewolf beginning to cry.  
  



	2. Long Dark Night Chapter 2

  
  
"My Lord!" Vimes jerked awake with a scream and felt cool hands on his shoulders. Light, his dazed mind babbled, look at all the light.  
  
"He's awake!" Sybil's tearful voice called out, "Get Carrot and Angua, he's awake."  
  
"Vetinari," Vimes begged, "Lord Vetinari? Is he..." He could not ask the question.  
  
"He's alive Sam, but very ill," said Sybil.  
  
Vimes sank back on the starched white pillow case. Alive. He was alive.  
  
The next few hours were a hubbub of voices, hugs, slaps on the back, and tears as Watchmen and Sybil received a heavily edited version of events. At last only Vimes and Sybil remained.  
  
"No arguing Sam," Lady Sybil said in exasperation, "The doctor says you can get up in a few days. Havelock will make it through them without you."  
  
Too tired to argue any more, Vimes smiled and gave in.  
  
**********************************************************************************  
  
Six days later a greatly healed and totally bored Sam Vimes was still smiling. His physician, it must be said, was not. In the later's case this was quite possibly due to being coshed lightly with a bedwarmer and bundled into a closet. If he could have seen anything in his current slumbering condition, he would have been quite dismayed to see his patient legging it away through the window, over the roof, down the drainpipe, and across the fields toward the Patrician's palace.  
  
Willikins, Lady Sybil's butler, glided silently into the nursery where Sybil sat knitting what had originally been intended as a baby bootie. In the absence of a baby 19 feet tall, it had become a blanket.  
  
"Sir Samuel has escaped, my Lady."  
  
Sybil smiled gently at the phrase. "Is Doctor Al-Dhalbi all right?"  
  
"Recovering in the Nauseating Green Drawing Room, my Lady."  
  
"Poor Sam," Sybil shook her head, "He wouldn't have enjoyed his freedom half so much if the doctor had gotten to tell him he could go."  
  
*********************************************************************************  
  
"Sir Samuel Vimes, my Lord."  
  
Havelock Vetinari looked up briefly from the papers spread across his bed.  
  
"Thank you Drumknott," said Vetinari, "You may show him in."  
  
The clerk stepped back into the hall and motioned Vimes through the door.  
  
Vimes gasped as he saw clearly for the first time the damage done to the Patrician. The man's slender form was now gaunt, the lines of his face etched in acid. Black bruises mottled his eyes, lips, cheeks, and forehead, and bandages hid most of his hands. The corners of his mouth were stitched and swollen.  
  
Vetinari looked at him curiously. "What ever is the matter, Sir Samuel?"  
  
Vimes struggled to maintain his composure. "Nothing at all Sir." He noted the tremble in the Patrician's fingers as they lay on the coverlet.  
  
"I am alive, Sir Samuel, and I must thank you for that," said Vetinari stiffly.  
  
"Just doing my job, Sir," said Vimes with a blank expression. Inwardly, he clicked his heels and leapt for joy. The man was a raving nutter when he... touched him with his lips. He must not even remember it.  
  
"It was touch and go for a bit there, Sir, but you pulled yourself through," said Vimes. "I was only worried for a minute, there when you were talking out of your head a bit."  
  
Vetinari smiled slightly. "What bit was that Sir Samuel?"  
  
"Just some fever ravings Sir," said Vimes, "Most of it wasn't understandable."  
  
Vetinari templed his fingers beneath his chin and fixed his bright gaze on Vimes. "Did you understand the part where I kissed you?" he asked.  
  
Vimes felt his mouth drop open and he shut it again with an audible "pop."  
  
"I do want to apologize for that, Sir Samuel. I wouldn't have done it but I believed I was going to die."  
  
"Sir," said Vimes.  
  
"Oh don't look so wooden Commander," Vetinari said in annoyance, "Even I have made mistakes on occassion. You need have no fear that I will do it again."  
  
Vimes walked to the side of the bed and peered at the man beneath the covers. "I'm not afraid you'll do it again Sir," he muttered at last, "I don't know why you did it the first time."  
  
"You really don't do you?" said Vetinari. Vimes shook his head slowly, eying the Patritian as if he were a powder keg with only the last inch of burning fuse visible.  
  
"Sit down, Sir Samuel," said Vetinari, gesturing to the bed.  
  
"I'll stand Sir."  
  
"Sit down Vimes," said Vetinari in a voice that brooked no argument.  
  
Vimes sat cautiously on the edge of the bed and looked at the ground.  
  
"Sir Samuel, I realize that I am alive today not because you care for me so much, but because you did your job. I am quite comfortable with that," said Vetinari firmly.  
  
"Does anyone else know what happened to you in there?" Vimes asked quietly.  
  
Vetinari looked at the Commander curiously. "My physician, and he has been paid enough to ensure his eternal silence. Lord Rust and the others received the recordings but stopped the imps before they could finish. It seems they were unable to stomach hearing them all the way through." Vetinari smiled, "They are now in my possession of course, their memories wiped."  
  
"What about you, my Lord?" said Vimes.  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Who will you talk to my Lord?"  
  
Vetinari said nothing for a moment, then smiled briskly. "Thank you so much for coming Sir Samuel, I'm sure you have things to do? Crimes to investigate?" He reached for the hanging bell pull, "Drumknott will show you out."  
  
Vimes was quicker, snatching the tassled pull to the side.  
  
"Not this time my Lord," said Vimes angrily. "At the very least you owe me an explaination."  
  
"I owe you?" said Vetinari slowly, trying the phrase on for size. "Have a care Sir Samuel, my patience is not eternal. Our, relationship, in that cell was based on circumstances which have happily been brought to a close. I see no reason why we should ever revisit them."  
  
Vimes released the bell pull. "Why did you kiss me?" he demanded in furious confusion. "Why me?"  
  
Vetinari smiled. "Because you are Samuel Vimes, Commander. And now I really believe you must be going."  
  
Vimes stood and stalked for the door. Vetinari waited expectantly as the slab of oak swung shut, and was rewarded by a faint cloud of plaster dust as Vimes slammed his fist into the wall outside.  
  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Days turned into months, the spring green growing on the Ankh turning to winter grey ice. Sam Vimes sat at his desk, staring through the window into the night sky. Sometimes he forgot, for hours at a time, then it sprang out at him like the smell of Foul Ole Ron.  
  
Rumor had it the Patrician no longer slept easily; his nights were said to be broken by screaming nighmares. Vimes knew for a fact he slept with a light, had seen it shining from the window dusk to dawn.  
  
Vimes himself slept little these days. There was Sybil, huge and aching as she neared the end of her pregnancy, and then there were the memories.  
  
(I always wondered what it would take to bring you to my bed.)  
  
Why me? Vimes wondered over and over again. And why can't I stop thinking about it. I love Sybil, why in the hell am I so confused?  
  
Suddenly furious, he shoved aside the towering stacks of paper (loosely, paper. More correctly, 467 bits of paper, 229 squashed almost-but-not-quite waterproof curry bags, 112 copies of the Book of Om provided by Corporal Visit, a feather boa, three confused gnomes, two sacks of pigeon feed, and a new species of cockroach) and placed his hands flat on the desk for the first time in almost six years.  
  
Maybe it was time to think about it. Think like a copper. Mentally he began to tally.  
  
1) Havelock Vetinari had kissed him, and had expressed what even Vimes realized was an interest in something more than kisses.  
  
2) He couldn't stop thinking about it.  
  
3) The idea no longer made him feel confused and panicked and disgusted. Now it only made him feel confused.  
  
4) He had to know.  
  
He thought briefly of the tittering, prancing female impersonators he sometimes got in the cells (while he found it impossible to see how anyone could mistake them for women, some men swore they couldn't tell- up until a passing business associate, friend, relative, or neighbor helpfully pointed out the mistake. That was generally where the fight began). Somehow, Vetinari did not seem to fit in their company. Oh well, it didn't matter. He had to solve this, once and for all.  
  
He stomped for the door. Outside the winter wind blew wickedly, taking his breath, but he staggered onward with the determination of the damned.  
  
At the palace there was a brief and pointed discussion with the Palace guards.  
  
Leaving the men wrapped in their own private worlds of hurt, Vimes jogged up the broad staircase and knocked at the door of the Patrician's office. The door opened and the suprised face of Drumknott peered out.  
  
"Can I help you Sir Samuel?" asked the puzzled clerk.   
  
"I need to speak with His Lordship," said Vimes. He heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, and the click of Vetinari's walking stick making slow progress across the floor.  
  
"I'll see if he's in," said Drumknott, attempting to close the door.  
  
"Oh I'm sure he is," said Vimes cheerfully. He shoved the door open, sending the suprised Drumknott sprawling. The man leapt up quickly and sprang for the nearest bell pull, only to be stopped by Vetinari's upraised hand.  
  
"It's all right, Drunknott," said the Patrician, "You may leave."  
  
The clerk looked troubled, but quickly gathered his papers and fled. Vimes turned the massive iron key in the lock.  
  
"You wished to see me Sir Samuel?" asked Vetinari calmly, seating himself at his desk. He glanced at his watch. "It must be rather important to require your presence here at 3:00 A.M. on a winter's morning." He picked up his discarded quill and began to write.  
  
Vimes knelt beside the black-clad man and seized his writing hand. For a moment they formed a frozen tableau and Vimes wondered if he were about to die.  
  
Vetinari moved first, deliberately pulling the quill from beneath their hands and capping the ink bottle. Vimes found himself fascinated by the pattern of scars on the man's hand as it moved to place the bottle aside.  
  
The Patritician turned in his chair to face the kneeling copper.  
  
"What do you want from me Sir Samuel?" he asked quietly.  
  
"Why me?" said Vimes, in a snarling growl. "No more of your twisty politician's excuses."  
  
"Because you were never afraid of me," said Vetinari, "Because you do what is right. Because you're an honest man in a city of thieves and liars. Because you would arrest the gods if they annoyed you."  
  
Vimes chuckled softly.  
  
"Because you're one of the most attractive men I have ever met," finished Vetinari firmly.  
  
Vimes felt the blush burning its way up his throat and across his face. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on," he said miserably.   
  
Vetinari slid his scarred left hand across Vimes' cheek and throat to rest on his shoulder.  
  
"Why are you here Samuel? What is it that you want?"  
  
"I don't know anymore," said Vimes desperately. "Do you still want to know what it would take to bring me to your bed?"  
  
"I would be most curious," said Vetinari, "Academically, of course." He cocked a curious eyebrow at the kneeling policeman.  
  
Academically. Oh gods. "Ask me," croaked Vimes. He felt as if he were drowning.  
  
Vetinari's reaction would have delighted Vimes at any other time. The Patrician paled, and his fingers trembled for a long moment.  
  
"Do you mean it?" whispered Vetinari. "Do you know what you are doing?"  
  
"Hell no, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm more confused right now than I ever have been in my life," said Vimes furiously. "But I have to know. I have to know why the thought of your death makes me feel like the bloody Disc is collapsing. Damn you man, ask me or tell me to go to hell, but do it now."  
  
Vetinari rose, and Vimes rose with him. They stood staring at one another for a long moment.  
  
"Come to bed Sam," said Vetinari.  
  
Vimes nodded once, and followed the limping man to the bedchamber next door. He stood silently as Vetinari bolted the door, and turned down the covers on the massive oaken bed.  
  
"I don't know what to do," said Vimes bluntly. He stood in frozen confusion at the head of the bed.  
  
"You can begin by taking your boots off and laying down," said Vetinari. The tall man kicked away his own thin slippers and slid into the bed.  
  
Vimes sat stiffly on the quilted coverlet, trying not to think. Mechanically he removed first one boot, then the other, and gingerly swung his legs beneath the covers. He lay back.  
  
Vetinari leaned back on an elbow and allowed his right hand to trail across Vimes forehead and ear. Sam shivered.  
  
"Why were you so afraid of my death in that cell?" asked Vetinari gently. His hand made hypnotic passes along Vimes chest and arms.  
  
Sam took a deep breath, "Then, because it bloody well wasn't right. Now, I don't know anymore."  
  
"You have seen me close to death several times Sam," Vetinari reminded him, "The arsenic, the gonne?" His nimble fingers began to unbutton Vimes shirt. "I'm sure there have been times you would have happily given me over to the torturer yourself."  
  
Vimes gasped as Vetinari's cool hand slid beneath his shirt and stroked the warm flesh directly. "Because it was more than pain," he managed.  
  
"Do go on," said Vetinari with interest. His fingers slid across a rough nipple, and tugged gently.  
  
"You always seemed to be, I don't know, above pain somehow. In that cell, it wasn't about pain anymore." Sam twisted slightly as Vetinari began to stroke and tug at his other nipple. Gods that felt good! He cleared his throat. "What they did to you, wasn't right. No one could stand up to that. Not even you."  
  
Vetinari smiled and sat up. "Do you know the key to successful torture, Sam?" Vimes arched his back as Vetinari began to slide the flats of his hands back and forth across his chest.  
  
"No," said Vimes breathlessly. He suddenly felt unreal, displaced somehow. Here I am, he thought, in my leather breeches and my rumpled Watchman's shirt (complete with ground in cigar ash and a suspiciously curry-like stain directly above the right elbow), here I am lying in the Patrician's bed, with the Patrician, chatting about torture as if this were an everyday occurance. Not to mention letting him, letting him...oh gods, letting him....  
  
Sam's breath came more quickly as Vetinari slowly stroked the skin of his stomach.  
  
"The key to successful torture is that the victim must be able to personally provide what you desire," said Vetinari. "Anyone can handle enormous amouts of pain and humiliation, provided they are happening at a comfortable distance. My tormentors were lost from the beginning, because I did not have the ability to give them what they wanted."  
  
Vetinari grasped the loose material of Vimes' shirt, and slid the cloth slowly, sensually down the man's arms and off. Sam raised himself slightly to allow this, marveling at the electric sensations as the garment fell away. The air on his bare chest and back felt alive, charged somehow. Every hair seemed to be standing on end, waiting for those cool hands.  
  
Vimes felt his erection growing as Vetinari massaged the skin of his shoulders and arms. "They knew they had made a mistake didn't they, that first day," he said, "You're not afraid of pain, and everyone knows it. Rust would let you be tortured, counting on the Watch to save you before you were killed."  
  
"But I said they were clever," said Vetinari, "they were unafraid to try a combination of agony and humiliation which might persuade me to be a little more, vigorous, with my screams."  
  
Sam raised his hands to Vetinari's flowing black shirt and tugged it gracelessly over the man's head. Tentatively, he placed his fingers on the white shoulders and closed his eyes. It was so much easier in the dark. He allowed himself a careful exploration of the unfamiliar musculature, suprised at the hardness and wiry strength beneath the skin.  
  
"What did they do to you?" whispered Vimes, "Can you do, this, without hurting yourself more?"  
  
Vetinari's hands stopped moving, then clasped Sam's arms. "Do you need to know?" he asked tightly.  
  
Vimes opened his eyes. "You need me to," he said. He paused, trying to find the right words, "I wouldn't know what I was doing if none of this had happened. With chases and fights I know where I stand, here I'm..." He gestured hopelessly.   
  
Vetinari stared into the policeman's eyes. "They used a troll, Sam," said the Patrician at last, "and when he didn't fit he simply pushed a little harder. Of course, he did make his way easier by covering himself with a mixture of turpentine and red pepper. The same mixture, I might add, which they used to clean me out before and afterward."  
  
Vimes felt his erection quiver and die as the horror of the man's words sank in. The bastards, the bloody, bloody bastards, he thought. When I find them there won't be enough to make cat's meat.  
  
"Is the damage healed?" asked Vimes cautiously, trying to contain his raging fury.  
  
Vetinari laughed coldly. "The physical damage has healed and I am happy to say I can once again attend to the chamber pot without screaming."  
  
Sam had been a copper too long to miss the words unsaid. "And the other damage?"  
  
"I'm sure you've seen my lights," said Vetinari calmly.  
  
Vimes lay back and covered his face with an arm. The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, a man whom even the Assassin's Guild feared, had just admitted to him, Sam Vimes, that he was afraid. Why tell him? Why was he here? When had he become so afraid of losing...  
  
The silence streched out sharp as a knife.  
  
The bed creaked as Vetinari sat back at last and retrieved his shirt. "It's all right Sir Samuel," he said, "I quite understand. Have no fear that I will remind you of this evening in the future." He slid his legs from under the covers and began to feel for his slippers.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Vimes without moving his arm.  
  
"I am going to finish the monograph I was preparing," said Vetinari smoothly. "You have the information you came here to get, when you are ready I'm sure you know the way out."  
  
"No," said Vimes.  
  
"No?" echoed Vetinari curiously.  
  
"No," said Vimes. Sam sat up and laid a hand on the Patrician's sleeve. "I'm not here bacause I'm your policeman. If I was here as a copper I'd have no say in what you did, and you could show me the door."  
  
"What are you here as, Sir Samuel?" asked Vetinari.  
  
"I don't know," admitted Vimes, "but you can't just walk away. You don't want to walk away."  
  
"I don't?" said Vetinari flatly.  
  
"No," said Vimes angrily, sitting up. It was to to not only go out on a limb but to saw the bloody thing off behind him. He was furious, and it felt good. With rage he knew what to do. "You're scared, because I know what hurt you. Well gods dammit I'm scared too. I'm confused and I want to make those bastards eat their own noses. I look at you and I want to punch you, but then I... I...." He ran out of words and sat staring angrily at the Patrician.  
  
Vetinari chuckled. A real laugh this time. "May you never cease to amaze me Sam." He pulled his shirt back over his head and kicked away his slippers.  
  
Vimes rested his head on the pillow as Vetinari slid to lay full length against him. He blinked as the Patrician stared full into his face with a look Sam had never seen before. Uncetainty? Even fear? Surely not, he thought, what would he have to fear from me?  
  
"You do want this, Sam?" asked Vetinari again, "You're not here out of some misplaced sense of duty?"  
  
Vimes nodded slowly.  
  
He closed his eyes as a pair of warm, firm lips met his own.  
  
Sam lay absorbing the sensations for a moment, then, carefully, fearfully, allowed himself to return the gentle pressure. His eyes flew open in suprise as he heard Vetinari's breathing shudder in response.  
  
I'm making him feel this way, Vimes realized in shock, me, Sam Vimes. He brought his lips to Vetinari's with more force this time, and felt the man's mouth open slightly. Abruptly his ability to analize the situation disappeared as Vetinari deepened the kiss into something unexpectedly hot and skin tight. Vimes heard himself moan softly.  
  
"Sam," Vetinari sighed gently. His mouth moved to Vimes neck, licking and sucking at the delicate flesh behind his ear, then returned to tug at his lower lip.  
  
Vimes felt his erection return in force as Vetinari's hand rubbed maddeningly across his nipples and belly. A hot tongue licked delicately across his upper lip, then thrust tantilizingly to explore his teeth and gums.  
  
"Havelock, please..." Vimes begged, unsure of what he was begging for.  
  
Vetinari lowered his head and lashed his tongue roughly over Vimes marble-tight nipples. He was rewarded with a deep moan. Moving deliberately, he threw his leg over the man's panting body and slid to straddle his hips. "Say my name again Sam," said Vetinari tightly, "Let me hear you say my name."  
  
Vimes opened his eyes at the feel of the warm weight on top of him. "Havelock," he hissed, arching his back. Uncertainly he reached up and wrapped his hands around Vetinari's narrow waist. The Patrician returned his attention to Vimes' chest, now sucking, now carefully nipping at the deep rose nubs. Sam groaned as a hand slid across the front of his trousers and began to massage his aching cock.  
  
This was incredible, Sam thought, oh gods so incredible. He realized with a start that he could feel Vetinari's erection against his stomach. Was this why he had been afraid?  
  
"Do you like this Sam?" asked Vetinari.  
  
"Yes," gasped Vimes, "Damn you, yes."  
  
"I want more of you," said Vetinari. He rolled himself to the right so that they lay side by side with legs intwined. He slid one arm around Vimes' back, and with the other hand unbuttoned Sam's breeches.  
  
Vimes pulled himself closer, almost growling as Vetinari's hardness pressed against his stomach, moaning in pleasure as the Patrician's hand entered his trousers and wrapped around his shaft.  
  
"I want to see you naked Sam," said Vetinari. He began to pump his fist slowly, making Vimes writhe. "Help me get your trousers off," he added softly.  
  
Vimes felt his erection pound at the Patrician's words, and raised his hips so that Vetinari could slide down the clinging leather and the linen underdrawers. He gasped in suprise as Vetinari took him in his mouth.  
  
There were no words to describe the sensation, hard and then soft, almost too fast, and then achingly slow. Vimes felt himself clawing at the man's shoulders and knew that he did not want to stop. As a copper in daily contact with various members of the Seamstresse's Guild (even if the contact did only involve escorting them to the cells, one found himself learning ever so much) he had of course been aware that alternate forms of love making existed, but they had never before formed any portion of his day to day existance. Not that Sybil hadn't thought about it, but after one brief attempt (with the help of a Klatchian tome called The Perfumed Allotment), which resulted in a serious bite wound and a sustained bout of gagging, they had both decided that improvisation was not required.  
  
This was to improvisation what a folk tune was to a symphony.  
  
As Vetinari's hands clenched and molded his buttocks Vimes felt himself tightening for release. Instintively his thrusts deepened and his hands sought purchase in the Patrician's hair.  
  
"Havelock," he gasped as the explosion roared through his veins.  
  
Vetinari thrust himself toward Vimes once, then twice more; enjoying every moan and spasm as the policeman twitched beneath him.  
  
Vimes lay panting as Vetinari pulled himself upward to lay beside him once again. He noticed immediately that the Patrician was still hard.  
  
"Do you... do you want me to...?" He did not know the words, so he contented himself with resting his fingertips on Vetinari's hip.  
  
Vetinari stared at him, an untranslatable expression on his face. "What do you want to do Sam?" he asked in a neutral tone.  
  
"I want to touch you," snarled Vimes. "I have to touch you; I don't know why." Some of the anger seeped from his voice. "I'm not sure how to go about it," he admitted.  
  
"Let me show you," said Vetinari in a gentle voice that Sam had never heard before. Slowly he slid out of his trousers and tossed them to the floor.  
  
Vimes shivered as Vetinari began to stroke himself. This wasn't happening, was it? After a moment of indecision he placed his hand below Vetinari's and began to move it up and down, copying the pace the man had set.   
  
"So good Sam," Vetinari moaned. He released himself and wrapped his hands gently around Vimes' shoulders.  
  
Sam felt himself twitching as the Patrician's shaft grew moist and the man's breath began to catch.   
  
I'm making him come, Vimes thought in wonderment, I'm actually making Vetinari lose control. Emboldened by this though, he began to squeeze more firmly, pausing now and again to slide his fingers across the tip's narrow slit. As the Patrician's muscles tightened Vimes pumped his left hand vigorously along the straining shaft, and used the fingers of his right hand to swirl and tease the narrow ridge beneath the crown.   
  
Vetinari erupted in a frenzy of white.  
  
A moment later the Patrician lay absolutely still as Vimes carefully removed his hand and wiped it deliberately on the sheet. He would not allow himself to tremble.  
  
Sam untangled his legs and streached himself facedown on the bed with his face nestled into his crossed arms. "I love Sybil," he said at last, in a flat, muffled voice.  
  
"I am well aware of that fact Sir Samuel," said Vetinari in a suspiciously normal voice. Perhaps only one of the Listening Monks might have heard the tiny tremour, like the sound of a sparrow's sigh. "You do underestimate me. I am under no misapprehension that you..."  
  
"Stop," said Vimes without looking up.  
  
"I love my wife," he repeated, "but if she should die, I would go on."  
  
A dangerous, watchful silence filled the room, but Sam continued. He was afraid to see Vetinari's face, afraid that he was making a botch of the whole thing. Damn it why did the man have to be so imperterbable!  
  
"I spend half my time wanting to kill you, and the other half hoping someone else does it for me," he muttered, "but if you really died I... I... I don't know what I would do."  
  
The watchful silence lifted. Vetinari trailed his fingers through Vimes' greying hair, and began to stroke the clenched muscles of his back.  
  
"I'm laying here," said Vimes, "after what we just did, and I'm getting hard again. Me, at my age." He snorted. "Usually I just go to sleep, but all I can think about right now is having you shove a bloody pillow under my hips so that you can do something that I have always found it hard to believe anyone actually enjoys."  
  
Vetinari slid his hands to Vimes' buttocks and legs, caressing and fondling.  
  
"I want to get on my knees in front of you," said Vimes desperately, "and I want to make you scream my name, MY name. And then I want to follow you like a dog on a lead. What the hell have you done to me?" He rolled to face Vetinari and seized his arm in a painful clench.  
  
"What have you done?" he almost screamed.  
  
"I have fallen in love with you," said Vetinari calmly, "And I really cannot see how breaking my arm will make it any better."  
  
There was a moment of stunned silence.  
  
"Do you mean that?" rasped Vimes.  
  
"Have you found me to be in the habit of gratuitous falsehood?" asked Vetinari curiously.  
  
Vimes hand dropped limply to the bed. "You love me? he said quietly.  
  
"I have tried to get over it," said Vetinari, "However in the absence of programs where one stands up and says "Hello, my name is Havelock, and I'm in love with a surly, suspicious bastard named Sam" I have found it too trying for my meager resources." Vetinari paused, and considered the sight of Vimes' downcast head. "Your sword is over there by your pants Sam, if you want to try for it. I do realize that this is perhaps rather more unacceptable to you than a simple need for a few moments of physical release."  
  
Vetinari smiled sadly, "I feel I must warn you however that in the event you are not, shall we say, determined, enough to reach it before I reach you, the rest of your life shall be excitingly event-filled, if rather brief."  
  
Vimes reached out slowly and allowed his shaking fingers to explore the side of the Patrician's face, and feel the silken texture of his hair.  
  
"I'm going to say this," said Vimes, "and if you look at me in that supercilious way I bloody well will go for my sword." He took a deep breath. "If you love me, then I want you to make love to me, properly." He stumbled over the words, swallowed and went on, "They all treat you like the boogeymen's boogeyman; you even scare the undead. I always thought I was above that, that I treated you like anybody else because you were like everyone else. Now I wonder if I ever really believed that, or if I was only proud of ignoring the fact that you scared me too." He stared at the Patrician in desperation. "I have to know you're just a man, like me," said Vimes. "That I can hurt you, or.. or love you. That it's not just another game; you're not untouchable."   
  
"If I could own you Sam, I never would have been able to love you," said Vetinari. "And whatever games I may play as the ruler of Ankh-Morpork do not, I believe, extend to my existence as a man."  
  
"Show me," said Vimes. "Make love to me. After that cell, only a monster would betray the trust I showed by allowing you that. If you are a monster, well, my sword is never too far away and my pride will heal."  
  
"And if I am not?"  
  
"If you are not, and this is some bit of politician's foolishness, you'll tell me no, now."  
  
"And if I don't?"  
  
Vimes looked at him, his face carefully blank. "Then I am your dog, my Lord."  
  
Vetinari quirked his lip. "The very idea brings a new terror to pet ownership Sam."  
  
Vimes snorted, "I never said I wouldn't eat my leash." He lounged back on an elbow, "The choice is yours my Lord."  
  
Vetinari ran a slow hand across Sam's leg to his groin, weighing the heaviness he found there. "You may roll over Sam, but I most emphatically do not wish you to play dead."  
  
Vimes rolled slowly back onto his stomach, and allowed himself to be arranged to the Patrician's satisfaction. He was trembling slightly as Vetinari's hands moved here... and, oh gods, there... A pillow slid beneath him, and the press of the cloth against his throbbing cock was almost more than he could bear.  
  
He gasped as fingers slicked with cream spread his cheeks and circled the tight opening. He could feel Vetinari's erection sliding between his legs and along his own. Sam moaned aloud as the probing tip of a thumb forced its careful way through the tight ring of muscle.  
  
Vetinari leaned against him more firmly, moving his hand in tiny orbits, streching, feeling... The Patrician's breath came in harsh gasps.  
  
Vimes suddenly found it hard to breath as the invading digit pressed further in and then retreated. Waves of terror fought with arousal as the thumb was withdrawn and replaced by two fingers.  
  
He's inside me, thought Vimes in panic. The feeling of fullness, of invasion, threatened to overwhelm the blasts of pleasure radiating from his roaring prostate. He's inside me, and I'm spread out like a banquet, thought Vimes. He could do anything, anything at all.  
  
Defenseless. The word screamed through his head as Vetinari added a third finger and began to thrust lightly. Is this what Sybil feels like when I'm on top of her, wondered Vimes. A darker thought entered his mind- What did he feel like, when they had that bloody troll...? What did he feel like now, naked and exposed, with a man who's family had a history of rather terminal anti-authoritarian streak? I could destroy him, realized Sam, just by going out in the morning and saying he attacked me. A doctor could verify my claim and no one would ever suspect...  
  
"Are you all right Sam?" gasped Vetinari.  
  
Vimes hesitated for only a second, "I want you inside me," he moaned, "Now, before I lose my nerve." He felt the pressure pull back as the Patrician withdrew his fingers, and then jerked as something larger and harder replaced them.   
  
There was some pain, but nowhere near as much as he had feared. Then it was gone, replaced with flowing waves of pleasure as Vetinari began to stroke his cock in time to the slow, deep thrusts.  
  
Time stood still as Vimes threw his head back in extasy. He heard himself whispering, "Havelock, oh gods, Havelock."  
  
Vetinari increased the pace as he felt himself nearing completion with Vimes' words. He had wanted this for so long that it almost seemed unreal. Vimes beneath him, calling his name... The thought jolted him over the edge.  
  
Sam groaned and came as he felt Vetinari's heat erupt deep inside him. There was an inexplicable feeling of loss as the Patrician withdrew himself and fell onto the bed.  
  
Vimes rolled over carefully, not wanting to loose the sensation quite yet. He stared at the slender man beside him. Vetinari stared back, his face carefully composed.  
  
I could hurt him, thought Vimes, he's given me the ability to hurt him. The thought was comforting and terrifying in the same breath.  
  
"We'll have to be carefull," said Vimes gruffly. "No one's to find out about us, especially not Sybil. She doesn't deserve that."  
  
Vetinari's eyes were fathoms deep and unreadable. "I think that you will find I am an expert at taking care Sam." He cleared his throat. "Does this mean that you will allow this relationship to continue?"  
  
"For as long as you want me," muttered Vimes. Clumsily he reached out and patted Vetinari on the shoulder, then shook his head and pulled the man to him.  
  
"I'll always be a copper," said Vimes after a moment. "Don't ever think that I'll be happy passing out those fiddly little sandwiches and prancing about in tights."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of asking it, Sam," said Vetinari smoothly. He smiled at Vimes disbelieving expression. "If I wish you to wear tights I'll make it an order."  
  
Vimes roared with laughter and engulfed the Patrician in an enormous bear hug. The two men looked at each other, and chorused, "Which will be disobeyed."  
  
After that, there was nothing more to be said.  
  
  
Fin. 


End file.
